


The Last

by Procrastination_Sensation



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Artistic Liberties, Gen, Second Person, its based on greek mythology what can you do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 07:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12722568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Procrastination_Sensation/pseuds/Procrastination_Sensation
Summary: The beginning of the end is heralded by the news that you are the last. Now all you must to do is wait for what you are owed.





	The Last

**Author's Note:**

> Changed it from third person to second person because the bold made it look irritating.

i.

The beginning of the end is heralded by the news that you are the last- shortly followed by two sharp knocks on your door. When you hear this you rise from your seat, your tea still steaming in a cup on the table, and raise your head regally.

“Come in,” you call. Your door opens to reveal a face that you aren’t expecting; you do not let your face falter visibly, staring at your visitor. He meets your eyes with some reluctance. A shift in the atmosphere occurs. “Sit down,” you utter, turning from him to retrieve another cup, pouring tea into it. In the time you hear him take in pulling up a chair, you know he follows your request only reluctantly. You set the tea in front of him and retake your own seat, keeping your shoulders straight.

The silence is deafening.

“I know why you are here.” It is an offer of knowledge, an allowance: now he will not have to speak it. You raise your cup to your lips, “However, I wish you to hear one thing first.” His eyes, which had been so focused on his cup, raise to meet yours, his lips twisted. You sip your tea. He waits.

“Well?” A prompt, this is. A wish for this charade to be over. You do not begrudge him this want: the air between the two of you is full of apologies never to be spoken.

You tell him your own wish, and sip your tea again. He is silent. “Please grant me at least this.” It is the only plea he will ever hear fall from your lips. Perhaps he would not hate you so if he could remember the true first plea you had ever spoken in his presence.

_“Please- please, do not do this. Please-”_

He will never know, because the one you had pleaded with is gone now.

He rises to his feet and does not look back as he takes his leave. You do not raise your eyes from your tea. His own cup is left untouched, the fragrance of pomegranates rising from it smelling almost poisonous.

When the two of you were together, you had told him of how beautiful flowers were: how colorful and nice-smelling they could be. How the dew drops glisten off their leaves and petals in the early morning. Now he smells of flowers, but also of burial dust and decaying flesh. Your stomach twists.

You raise the cup to your lips once more.

ii.

There is only one obligatory knock this time, and your eyes rise from your clasping hands to the door.

“Enter.” The door opens, the sound of the pounding rain deafening, and thus enters a man as wild as the storm outside, closing the door behind him and blocking out the rain. You fight not to lower your eyes as his own meet them in challenge. Your lips press together.

“If you wish for tea, I request that you leave that at the door.” You do not need to look pointedly at the weapon in his hand for him to know what you speak of. He does not put the weapon down.

He also makes no move to enter further. You rise to your feet, your posture perfect.

“I know why you are here.” It is the same song and dance. The same yet different never-to-be-spoken apologies taint the air. You must tread more carefully this time, though, because this man is more volatile than the last. “However, I believe you know what I have requested. Will you refuse me my wish?”

“What right do you have to request anything from any of us?” His demand is filled with hate and distrust, hurt filtered out yet still audible to you. You refuse to allow your eyes to water. You raise your head higher.

“It is all I ask. Am I wrong in thinking I may ask something of him, at least?” His head jerks back as if you have hit him, and his hand clenches tighter around what he holds. He grits his teeth. He raises one foot, as if to take a step forward, and you meet his eyes levelly. His head twists away, and he swivels towards the door he had entered through. He leaves without a goodbye, stalking into the storm that howls all the louder, the door slamming shut behind him.

iii.

You are tending your flowers when your third visitor arrives, the scent of citrus greeting your nose. Your eyebrows furrow, for you know this is not who you have requested, either. She does not have his presence. You raise your eyes from the petals to meet her gaze. Your heart stutters. She says nothing. You straighten from your crouch, dusting your skirt unnecessarily.

“Is he so busy?” you murmur in question, peering through your eyelashes at her. She shifts her stance.

“He is doing his best to avoid you,” she states dryly. Under the scent of citrus coming from her is the smell of the earth. You laugh without humor.

“I believe I would have guessed as much.” You raise your eyes skyward, “Will you make his visit unrequired?” She shifts her stance once more, and in the corner of your eye you see her wrist twist. “She will be of Springtime,” you tell her, and she recoils in response, taking a step back.

“You don’t get to do this,” she hisses, fury emanating out of the earth-scent. “You lost the right, gave it up, as you gave me up.” Your eyes close, your sorrow staying away from the surface of your skin. When you open your eyes again, she is gone.

iv.

Three, evenly spaced knocks draw your tired attention, your eyes drifting up to look at the door. Before you can give permission, the door opens. In steps a woman as regal as you had once been, closing the door softly behind her, her peacock-green dress fluttering around her ankles. The two of you lock eyes for a period of time, when your head finally droops, tired of pretending you still have any dignity. Here is the evidence of the fact that you no longer have any.

She is your replacement, yet still the Queen of a new age entirely. Another reminder that you are the last. You almost want this all over with, yet you stand by your only request. You will not give in until this wish is fulfilled. It is somehow the only way you can fathom to apologize in your own way. After all, the fact that your previous wishes had not been fulfilled is the reason you are hated so, now. You meet her eyes.

“Am I not owed even this much?” Your voice is soft. You are unable to sound as demanding as you wish, for that voice and tone holds water only to the one you have been requesting. She raises an eyebrow.

“You will not even attempt an apology?” Your eyes lower once more. Your unspoken apologies are the only things that fill the room at this moment, nothing from the other that bring balance and equivalent silence. But the apology you owe her is the same as the one you have refused to speak to the others, so you remain silent. If you will not apologize to all, you will not apologize to one.

After all: look at where the last time you had shown favoritism has brought you.

“You know as well as I that this is a pittance of a request.” Your eyes rise to meet hers once more, the request for an apology ignored. Her eyebrows lower. “You would wish for the same,” you tell her. “Am I not owed even this measly request? Is he not able to grant me even this? From him, of all people?” When she does not falter, your eyes flash in a way they have not in a long, long while. “After what I have done for him?” The words are spat out between the two of you, a blast of Greek Fire meant to plunder and blaze. Destroy any hope left of reconciliation, because what you had done for him was what you had not done for the others. There is no reason for reconciliation, not when you’ve known what has been coming since the moment you had heard the news.

Her shoulders stiffen in response to the verbal attack, her face tightening. Your heart hurts at the sight of this expression on her face, but you show no visible falter. She spins on her heel, her dress swirling around her ankles, and leaves with nary a goodbye. Your face crumbles, because this is four you have antagonized and will never see again. You clutch your hand to your chest. If he does not come soon, you may die of a broken heart.

v.

A quiet tapping against your door signals the fifth, and, with a heavy heart, you whisper an admittance. You do not lift your eyes to the door as it opens and shuts quietly. The girl who has entered stares at you with wide eyes, awe-filled and pained, smelling of cherrywood and maple, and, if you listen closely, you can hear the low murmur that comes from a happy home. Something you no longer have, for you are the last.

You swallow dryly.

“What does he hope to accomplish, sending you?” If the previous visitor had owed you no apologies: this one is owed the most from you. You almost bite your lip to keep from letting them pour out.

“You do not wish to see me?” The question is vulnerable, for she has no need to seem regal or above anything. Your shoulders hunch in response.

“It is not that,” you whisper, not meeting her eyes still. “I have no right to see you. The others have said as much to an extent. Why do you not feel the same?” The following pause is thoughtful.

“You pleaded.” Her words cause your eyes to fly up to meet hers. You had not known any of them would know that. The others had told you they hadn’t. Your questioning gaze is met by hers, her eyes soft and gentle and sad. “I can hear it,” she says, her eyes closing as if to listen to what she claims to hear, “your voice, crying and begging, desperate pleas and screams left unacknowledged and ignored. You did not stop until he ordered you to.” Your eyes fall once more to your lap, embarrassed and ashamed. “Do the others know that you tried, at least?”

“In this case,” the near-silent words fall from your lips unbidden, “trying was not good enough.”

“No,” she agrees, sadly. “Not when you eventually tried harder. Not when it was not them you tried harder for.” Your face turns away from hers, as if to hide from the empathy in her eyes. You deserve none of it.

“Is he such a coward that he will not do for me what is owed to me?” Her eyes are still sad as you straighten, throwing your shoulders back in a semblance of dignity. “Is he such a coward that he will send all of you to do the one thing he especially owes me?”

“It is unwise to call him a coward,” she murmurs, her eyes finally lowering. You stick out your chin.

“If he makes all of you bow and scrape to him for only a chance _I_ gave him, yet still runs with his tail between his legs at the thought of facing me, then he is a coward and worse,” you declare fiercely. “He should be glad I do not even protest the fact that he has declared himself King.” The fact that you have not even a toe in that court to protest such a thing is left unsaid. She sighs quietly.

“I presume this means the conversation is over?” Your eyes meet hers once more at the question, and you cannot stop your eyes from gentling immeasurably.

“My dear,” you murmur, beckoning the girl towards yourself hesitantly. She is not hesitant as she rushes forward to hold you, your arms reaching to wrap around her. When the two of you were together, you had spoken to her of love and happy families and warmth, and she has followed your wishes to the letter even though she has not had to. You mumble into her hair: “If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, please, do this one thing for me. Make sure he is the next to come. Make sure he sends no others.” She starts to cry into your shoulder. You know it’s probably wrong of you to find comfort in that. All you do is hold her closer if only for a little longer.

vi.

He does not bother to even knock when he arrives, and it’s the rudest way you could’ve imagined this to begin.

“Did no one teach you manners?” Your tone is acidic, “Or did you somehow decide that the King of the Gods is above social protocol? Are you truly delegating every social nicety to your wife? Are you that barbaric a creature?” He seems startled at your tirade, mayhap because he has heard tell of your diminishing pride from his siblings. But the situation is different with him, for you for once owe no apologies, and he owes you quite a few at least. You know they will be left as unsaid as all the other apologies have been, but you hold no qualms over being rude when you owe him nothing. He clears his throat.

“I hardly believe social niceties matter at this point,” he says derisively, showing you little more respect than a lowly mortal. Your nostrils flare and your eyes narrow. “You know why I’m here.”

“I do,” you say, danger building in the back of your throat, “and social niceties matter all the more when you enter my own home intending to end my existence in it. The least you could do is be more polite about it. All the others were.” He stays silent, as if somehow he will be above you if he does not deem you someone he will speak with. Your fury grows all the more.

“You should have been the first,” would be a growl if it was not beneath you to growl. “You _know_ you should have been the first. And even after you feigned ignorance and sent another, you most certainly should have been the second. Do you somehow believe you are beyond fault? Beyond any duties? You have a duty to your subjects _and_ me to be the one to kill me.” He still says nothing. You toss your hair back.

“Why were you not here even before I received the news?” Your demand rises in volume and anger. “I would have thought you would be slavering for my blood. You bathed in the blood of my brothers. My sisters. My husband. Why not mine?” You throw your head back to release a twisted laugh. “I suppose my blood is rare now. All the pity that you do not seem to revel in it as much as you have before.”

“I will not be spoken to in this way,” he finally utters, and you laugh mockingly at him.

“Or what?” You demand, staring at him snidely. “Will you send my grandchildren next? Your siblings knew as well as you did that you should be the one to kill me, so sending all of them was a ridiculous notion. What did you hope for? Did you honestly want your wife to be the one to put me out? Some King of the Gods.” You scoff, knowing you are stepping over more lines of social etiquette than exist, but you honestly do not care one modicum. Today is your last day, truly. You will not leave with any more regrets. And if you bow and scrape to him now, you will spend the rest of eternity wishing you could scrape your tongue off with lye. He deserves no honor from you.

“You will cease speaking to me this way this instant!” His demand permeates the room, and you stare at him, wide-eyed.

“What a child you are,” you observe, holding nothing back. “So spoiled. So rotten. The only reason you are King is because of me. You hold no seniority. You are not more capable than them. Just chance. All chance. Did you childishly cheat your way into ruling the Heavens, as well? Did you cheat your brothers out of a fair chance of luck of the draw?”

“Cease this talk!” He is red up to his temples, and you dispassionately note that he denies nothing.

“Or what? You will kill me?” Your voice is humorless. “You will cut me up into little pieces and scatter me throughout Tartarus so I may suffer for eternity with little to no chance of reforming?” He cannot say anything to this, because it is what you have asked for. Your only wish, as you had told your first visitor: _“I wish to meet the same fate as my husband.”_ “What can you threaten me with that is worse than what I ask for? Mayhap you should rethink your ridiculous notion that I will beg for what is my due.”

“I owe you _nothing_ ,” he spits, and you hope he is reminded of the fact that _you_ were once Queen from the look on your face.

“You owe me _everything_ ,” you return, stepping forward. “It is only because I waited until _you_ to come up with something else that you are even alive. That you even _exist_ to be King, and stand here right now. Mayhap I should have gone to Mother before, and your sister would be Queen without having you as a foolish cretin of a husband. Then _she_ would have been my husband’s killer, and you would never be born. Everything. Was. Chance.”

His teeth grit, releasing a cracking noise, and you continue remorselessly, “They probably already pity her. Even the mortals will pity her, in ways that will only reach her to wound her pride all the more. Imagine being the Goddess of Marriage and being cuckolded by your own husband every moment he leaves your side. Drifting is sometimes inescapable, of course, but honestly, are you ever _in_ your marriage-bed? I would never have stood for such a thing, but you have such a tight reign on your siblings that she has no room to protest. She is pitiable, and you are all the more _pathetic_.”

A bolt of pure energy appears in his hand and he swings it to hold it against your throat, even though the two of you are still yet yards away from each other. You do not flinch in this show of supposed power. You merely glance down at it, then meet his eyes. “This is not what I am owed,” you say simply, your shoulders loose but still straight. “Where is my husband’s scythe?”

“Why?” His snarl fills the room, and you are disgusted at this loose show of emotion. A King should never wear his heart on his sleeve, especially when on a mission of execution. “So you may try to turn it on me?” Your sharp reply is a bark of derisive laughter.

“You honestly believe I have ever wielded such a thing? The weapon with power over Time itself, and all anyone but my husband is capable of using it for is as a butcher's knife, as he found out personally. I suppose it did all you asked of it, though.” You are still royal enough in temperament that he will never know how your heart wavers and falters as you say this last line, because no matter how many unforgivable things he did, he was still your husband, and now is but a wisp of an existence: cut into pieces by his own trusted weapon. “No. You used it to dispose of my husband, and so you will use it to dispose of me. A woman’s right is to die as her husband has, as long as she has been faithful to him and his memory. This is as it has always been.” His eyes narrow in response to your words.

“Perhaps you will show me more respect if I withhold that end from you.” Theoretically, most usually, this may have caused fear to flood your being. However, vindictive glee fills you, and you smile at this man who knows nothing of Covenants. He will know, now, that he has no choice in the matter.

“You cannot do so,” you tell him with ease, and he seems startled at your certainty. “This is a debt of life, and it _is_ what I am owed.”

“What debt?!”

“It is simple,” you say, your voice soft, gentle. “I gave you life and saved it from a helpless existence. The debt was cemented when you slaughtered my husband. You owe me a life, or a death, as I command, for I gave you a life and in the eyes of the Ancients you have rewarded my gift with the death of my husband, which was an insult. You owed me this demise the moment you wielded his scythe.

“Now,” you utter, spreading your arms wide, even as the energy flickers ominously against your throat, “do you realize how little power you hold here?” He falls silent, his mouth twisting into a childish sulk, and he lowers the bolt made for him by what used to be your husband’s victims, are your siblings yet not your kind. “This is my home, not yours, so if you would rightfully cease attempting to hold the power here, we may finally get on with this.”

The bolt disappears from his hand, replaced in an instant with the all-too-familiar scythe. You examine it as if it is an old friend, even as he raises it to your throat. You raise your eyes to his, and even though he is nothing of what you had hoped he would become, he is still…

Your eyes soften, “No one would mistake a stone for you now.”

You are the last, and then there are none. And when there are none, Mount Cybele falls with you, for it belongs to no God.

**Author's Note:**

> I took some liberties with Greek Myths and stuff, but honestly who doesn’t? You kind of have to to write any Greek Mythology. 
> 
> I couldn’t find how Zeus actually disposed of Kronos, so I took the method from the PJO Series, since when I wrote this I thought that was the actual myth. ^^”
> 
> I just figure Rhea would’ve been the hardest for any of them to bring themselves to kill. 
> 
> If you have any questions, leave me a comment! I left a lot of things intentionally vague, so if you’re still confused about anything then I’ll be happy to answer! Also, please leave me a comment if you liked it! I’d love to hear what your favorite parts were or if there was any scene that stood out to you particularly!


End file.
